


Hot Tonight

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Tonight

## Hot Tonight

by Brook Henson

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/brooks_basement/>

The Sentinel belongs to PetFly, not me. No copyright infringment is intended. No money's being made. 

Here's a short one, just for fun. I hope y'all enjoy. Feedback's *very* welcome.

* * *

Disclaimer: The Sentinel belongs to PetFly not me. No copyright infringement is intended. No money's being made. 

Note: Here's a short one, just for fun. I hope y'all enjoy. Feedback's very welcome. 

Summary: Blair comes home. 

Hot Night  
by Brook Henson  
(c) 2002 

It was two o'clock in the morning when Blair Sandburg arrived in Cascade, just off the Tacoma flight from Vancouver. Deplaning, he moved quickly through the harshly lit airport, not scanning the faces of the people around him. He was not expecting to be met. 

The night air that gusted over him as he walked out through the automatic exit doors beyond sterilized climate-control, was hot but smelled pungently of rain and Blair drew in a long breath, filling his lungs with the familiar scent. Close, he thought to himself. Almost home. 

A prompt yellow cab slid to a stop in front of him, gleaming under the fluorescent lights that trimmed the parking lot. Blair ducked into the backseat, tossing his single carry-on bag ahead of him, and stated his destination with succinct relief: 

"Eight fifty-two Prospect Avenue." 

Home. The loft. Where Jim was, lying asleep, tangled up in damp sheets. The cab drifted unrushed through sparse traffic, sweeping wings of shadow across the backseat and rolls of sulfur glow across the roof. And Blair felt a tightness in his chest as he gazed out the window at the dark, well-known streets of Cascade. The quiet streets that weren't, even at such an early hour, thronged with people and bumping tucks and motorcycle-taxies. Streets he wished he could fly through at eighty miles an hour like the president in his limo because he missed Jim so much-- craved him with the gut-cramp, sweaty fervor of an addict. He'd been gone too long. He'd let a low-grade fever of homesickness steam inside him and rise until he was burning up, seething with need. 

He saw the 'International Cafe' on fifth street where he had once persuaded Jim to eat plantains. 'The Tattered-cover' book store, 'Leo's' used furniture. He felt almost as though he was being ferried lazily through a past-life memory, one that was clear and throbbing with nostalgia. But he didn't want to be in a dream. He wanted only to be home, in bed with Jim-- staring up at his dark shape hovering above him, feeling the hot, wet stroke of his tongue. 

He had been away for four weeks, in West Africa, studying the heightened senses of desert dwellers, panning for connections to Sentinel lore-- animal spirits, shamanic guides, prophetic dreams. Four weeks of untangling long, often fruitless conversations with a Hausa interpreter and tribesmen who mistrusted anyone with a white face; the winds from the Sahara harsh and constant, blowing sand into everything. Blair had managed only a few short phone calls home, waking Jim at five in the morning to shout across continents, over a crackling line 

"How are you?!" 

"I'm fine!" 

"Your senses?!" 

"Fine!" 

"God, I miss you!" 

"I miss you too!" 

He had slept fitfully and dreamed only of home, the loft, electricity, running water, and Jim, Jim, Jim. The grip of Jim's hands on his hips. His voice murmuring softly in the dark. His kisses. His cock. The warm scent of him in the morning. Coffee. Breakfast. Jim. 

And he was close now. Close enough to feel an eager heat growing between his legs, and his heartbeat deepening. By the time the cab eased to a stop in front of his building on Prospect, Blair was tense with need and breathing through his teeth. He paid the driver with the last of the American money in his wallet, shouldered his bag, and trotted to the door. 

On the third floor landing he dug his keys out of his front pocket, dropped them, picked them up again, and had only just pulled out his apartment key by the time he reached the door of 307. 

Shoving the key into the lock, he let himself in and stood for a moment in the doorway, breathing hard. The loft was dark, and warm, and intimately familiar. The smell of it hit him like something out of his childhood, as specific and seasonal as cut-grass and smoking meat on the fourth of July. An impossible blend of everything good-- in memory and reality-- all wrapped up into the one scent that told him that finally, here, now, he was home. 

Blair threw down his carry-on bag, kicked it unceremoniously under the coat rack, tossed his keys in the direction of the basket by the door, and he navigated by memory around the shadowy hulks of living room furniture. He took the stairs leading to the upper bedroom, hauling on the railing. 

At the top he stopped and filled his eyes with the sight of Jim lying on his back on the bed. Moonlight seeped in from the skylight above etching him in faint, ethereal lines and Blair could just make out his shape-- the slope of his chest, the width of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. He was asleep, but not resting peacefully. His breath was heavy, seething in and out, the burdened rhythm of nightmare or fever or grief. Moaning, he said Blair's name. And that single sound jolted right through Blair, top to bottom, galvanizing him. 

He crossed the room in strides, reached down and took Jim's face firmly in his hands. His cock was throbbing painfully. He could smell his own anxious sweat. Jim's eyes flew open and before he was even awake Blair plunged his tongue into his mouth. He leaned into the kiss, driving down hard. He kneaded, sucked and delved all the way down into the dark, hot, sweet depths of Jim's mouth. He felt the tickle of the tip of his tongue and the sharpness of his teeth. He heard Jim moan, low in his throat like a man being fed. He felt hands come up to grip the back of his shirt, two heavy anchors pulling him down. And finally he ripped his mouth away to breathe. Jim's eyes flashed up at him steely with lust and recognition and utter relief. His hands fisted, twisting the fabric of Blair's tee-shirt and in a rough voice he demanded, 

"Don't stop." 

So Blair dove in again, hiking one knee up over Jim's waist to straddle him, squaring his weight. He spread his palms over Jim's face and started devouring his mouth again with devoted relish. Jim pushed his hands under Blair's shirt and gripped his sides, taking two handfuls. He arched his hips. He moaned again. Suddenly craving salt, Blair buried his head in Jim's neck and began licking, biting gently, tasting. He slid one hand down to cover Jim's heart, found the nipple and rolled it. 

"Blair," Jim gasped, tensing back, working his own urgent hands into Blair's pants, shoving his belt and boxers down. He found Blair's cock and held it like a living thing. 

"Blair," he said again, exhaling a profound welcome. Hands pressing powerfully on Jim's chest, thighs clamping, Blair managed to pull back enough to look at Jim's face, one deep, focused look into his eyes-- and he smiled. 

And as if that was a cue, Jim's arms came up and he rolled Blair over onto his back; shoes, shirt, clinking belt and all. 

"You," he growled possessively, panting, kissing, yanking Blair's sweat-stained shirt up over his head and flinging it away. With glinting eyes, he spread his fingers into the hair on Blair's chest. And then he sank back, drawing in lungfuls of his scent. 

"Mmmm," he rumbled, "you." 

And Blair laughed and gasped for air. He flailed out blindly with one hand, fumbling for lube. His cock was screaming, blood-filled, pulsing with unreleased pleasure-- ready to explode. He had to squeeze his eyes closed and fight to keep from coming. His fingers were nerveless when Jim took the lube from him. 

"I'm so ready for you," Jim gasped, hissing, "Making-- myself-- ready-- for you." 

Blair cried out and his eyes flew open when the cold, slick swipe of Jim's hand passed down the length of his cock-- surprise and sharp need blanked out the seconds it took for Jim to turn over onto his side and it was only through blind, instinctive seeking that Blair found Jim's center and pressed his way in. This, he thought, is coming home. And his breath hitched, caught on the shock of pleasure that passed through him-- pure voltage. His hand curled around Jim's cock, he thrust with his hips-- squeezed, pulled, thrust. And then it hit him like a blinding light. Perfect brightness. It flashed and flashed . He felt Jim's body inside and out. His tight, hot center, his pumping cock, the rock-hard, muscled length pressed against him. And it was all too much, unbelievable, absolute bliss. 

Riding sweet pleasure downward as it eased and softened, Blair strained to wrap his arms around Jim's chest. He hardly had any strength, his muscles quivered, but the swell of love that was rising up through him like a second climax was so powerful that he had to hold on. 

"You," he breathed, kissing Jim's neck. 

"Me. The one-man welcoming committee," Jim murmured softly, a smile in his voice. He turned over languidly. 

Blair thought of the lonely chill of the desert nights. The winds of the Harmattan. How long those nights had been sitting with his fingers molded around the curve of a warm beer mug in dimly lit, half-empty Kano bars. His thoughts always stretching back across the ocean to reach the loft and this bed and Jim's warmth against him. He took Jim's hand in his own and kissed it. He pressed Jim's knuckles to his lips. Jim smiled over at him, his teeth ghostly white, his eyes bottomless and dark. 

"Next time you leave I'm coming with you," he said, "a month is just too long." 

"We knew it would be." 

"I had whole, three hour conversations with the refrigerator. I ate Macaroni standing over the sink. This place hurts my eyes without you. There's no air." 

Blair touched Jim's face and felt along the contours of his brow and cheek bones like a blind man. 

"There isn't going to be a next time." 

"Blair--" 

Blair cupped his jaw and pulled him down for a long kiss. 

"I'm never leaving you again." Jim buried his face Blair's neck. 

"Say that again," he whispered. 

End  
brook_henson@yahoo.com 

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End Hot Tonight by Brook Henson: brook_henson@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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